Small g (17 page)

“If you say so. I’ll go up to Jakob’s and make a turn there.” A few seconds later, Dorrie said, “Can’t you tell this Renate that you had a lift to go to Teddie’s and you wanted to visit? Has she got something against boyfriends too, this gay-basher?”

“Well—y-yes,” said Luisa.

The car stopped, and Luisa got out.

“Oh, my card!” Dorrie groped in a briefcase, then leaned over to hand a card to Luisa. “Good luck, my sweet. Call me anytime!”

Rickie was reminded of Freddie Schimmelmann saying that. “Me too! Good luck with the old witch.” He watched Luisa walking briskly toward Renate’s, as Dorrie turned her car.

“You’re aiming for home, Rickie?”

He was, and Dorrie said she had an eight-thirty date. They parted in front of Rickie’s apartment building.

Rickie telephoned Freddie at once, and was surprised to get him. He told Freddie about the police agreeing that the tripod piece could have been the weapon. And he gave Freddie the name and particulars of Thomas Senn.

At about that moment, Luisa was taking questions from Renate. What had kept her so long? Renate had eaten dinner. Tomorrow was a working day, and routine had to be kept.

“You could have telephoned, no?” asked Renate. Her tone was mild—dulcet—compared to her voice when really in anger. She wore a Chinese red-and-gold kimono with wide sleeves, which she adroitly kept immaculate, regardless of kitchen activities.

“I was at Teddie’s house. I went to see him, because I got a lift,” Luisa said calmly.

“Oh! And they have no telephone, I suppose! Who drove you, this Mark—walder, whatever it is?”

“No—a woman.”

“Who?”

“I don’t even know her name—Beatrix, I think.”

“Friend of his? Was he with you?” Renate scowled.

“Yes,” Luisa said, feeling bold. “I don’t want dinner, it’s so warm. I may have a glass of milk.”

“You will
eat
!” said Renate, glad to focus on something definite. “You worked today, you’ll work tomorrow, and you need to eat. There’s a pork chop. And potato salad. You help yourself!”

Luisa hated it, but it wasn’t worth fighting about.

19

I
t was a few days later, as Rickie was taking his first bite of croissant at Jakob’s, that his eye fell on a name that made him pause. Georg Stefan. Why was that familiar? Rickie was gazing at a page of the
Tages-Anzeiger
. Georg Stefan had written an article called “An Old-Fashioned Date in a Brand-New World” and Rickie started to read it. With a shock, a twist of his thoughts, as if someone had turned his head full circle, Rickie realized that Teddie had written the piece about his date with Luisa at a mountain restaurant, dancing under the stars, a first date with a pretty girl who, like Cinderella, worse, had to be brought back home
before
eleven, or just a little after. The big car belonging to his mother, his promise to drink not even one glass of wine, his pleasure in the girl’s company
now
—but would she, could she make a second date with him? Teddie wrote that “her father” was the stern disciplinarian, which made Rickie smile. Caviar, a daring gin and tonic for her, the girl with eyes and hair like shining chestnuts.

Alone, alone
, the piece ended, after the drive back to the city to deliver the girl (she had no name) safely to her home. Funny, Rickie thought, that the paper would print it, and yet its naivety, its intensity, was much in its favor. Rickie supposed Teddie would be exploding with pride this morning. He thought Teddie really had not known about its acceptance last Monday.

Rickie, having stuck a crisp bit of his croissant into Lulu’s pointed muzzle under the table, lifted his eyes just as Luisa and Renate arrived, and Andreas also with his Appenzeller. “Thank you, my good man,” said Rickie, putting on an English gentleman accent.

“Do mansion it,” replied Andreas, “sir.”

Catching Luisa’s eye, Rickie gave a smile and a nod, that from this distance might have included Renate too, but she was not looking, or pretending not to, as she fixed a cigarette in her long holder. Rickie wanted to point to his newspaper to pique Luisa’s curiosity, but she wasn’t looking his way now. He had lifted his drink for a second sip, when Fred Schimmelmann walked in, wearing uniform. The day was indeed shaping up!

“Freddie—good morning!” Rickie relished every second, watching Renate stare with surprise at the police uniform. “Sit down, my friend. Off duty?”

“Couple of hours ago, yes.” Freddie sat down on a chair. “Traffic again, twenty-two hours till six, how about that?” He took his cap off, laid it on the big table. “I went by your apartment, no answer, so I thought you might be here.”

“Breakfast. Nearly every morning.”

“I talked with Thomas Senn this morning, went to his home station,” Freddie said. “He’s a serious guy, had the house number, photographs—of the scene.”

“He’s a detective?”

“Same as. He’s with a squad. He’s not too hopeful about finding who did it. But”—Freddie lowered his voice— “I told him about Willi, and I asked, how do you go about questioning a mentally handicapped person? Maybe with a doctor present?” His blue-gray eyes looked sharply at Rickie. “So this Senn says it’s perfectly legal to question him, and thinks a doctor present is a good idea—quietly present, y’know? A doctor could confirm that we’re not trying to give poor Willi the third degree.”

“No,” Rickie murmured, agreeing, but he saw another hitch. Ursie was heading toward them to take Freddie’s order.

“Ah, our police officer! Good morning, sir.”

“Morning,” said Freddie. “And I’d like a cappuccino, please.”

“Our
friend
,” said Rickie, pleased that Ursie was well disposed toward Officer Schimmelmann. He continued when Ursie left, “It’ll be a neat job if we can make a date with Willi without Renate Hagnauer finding out and butting in.” Rickie had lowered his voice.

“I know she’s sitting behind me,” Freddie said, gazing at the old scarred and sleek wooden table top. “They’re that close?”

“Oh—she pretends to protect him. If Willi has an hour’s warning about a date with the cops, he’ll tell her—or tell the Wengers.”

“We’ll have to surprise him—somewhere. With Senn plus a doctor from the police station.”

Just the idea made Rickie happier. “Fred—to change the subject. What do you think, my friend Teddie sold an article to the
Tages-Anzeiger
.” Rickie folded the paper on its stick, so the piece in question was visible.

“He’s a journalist?” asked Freddie, taking the paper.

“Wants to be—just now. This is about his first date with Luisa. Sort of naive—but it’s charming.”

Freddie was taking a look at it. “Rickie, you’d say it was charming if it stank.”

“Maybe. But if it stank, it wouldn’t be in the
Tages-Anzeiger
.”

Rickie got to his studio just as Mathilde did.

“You’re looking happy today,” she remarked.

“Oh—a small bit of good news,” Rickie replied as he unlocked the door. Mathilde was curious, he saw, so he didn’t wait for her to ask what. “My friend Teddie—the boy who was hurt. An article by him is printed in the
Tages-Anzeiger
today. I just read it in Jakob’s.”

“That he wrote? And he’s just a kid! An article about what?”

“A first date. He signs it Georg Stefan.”

“I’ll read it. We take it at home.”

Coffee. Always more coffee. Mathilde opened envelopes.

Rickie was cheerful for another reason: he had a “dry-skin” idea that he thought might work. It was true, some things are better dry, like champagne, some white wines, Dry Sack, and a dry martini cocktail, but not your skin. Rickie’s layout would have no person in it, only attractive wine and cocktail glasses. With his coffee and a cigarette, Rickie began to sketch.

“Ah, Rickie, here’s something not so nice.” Mathilde came over to hand a piece of paper to him.

This was a bill, with a small handwritten note from the Wengers, saying they were sure he would like to settle this as soon as possible. It was an estimate of two thousand, six hundred and forty-five francs for the two doors of Willi Biber, which had to be custom-made, because of the house’s antiquity.

“
Two
doors. Why can’t these crooks stuff themselves,” Rickie muttered, and broke out in a grin, when he saw that Mathilde had heard him. “For a couple of flimsy doors that anyone could kick in. And I did!”

They both laughed.

“One pays for one’s fun, no? Make a check out to those people, please, Mathilde, and I’ll sign it.” He went back to his work.

A little later, he was consulting a much used address book for a number for Dorrie. He found three, and tried one in the Bahnhofstrasse. This place knew Dorrie and thought she might be at another store, whose name they gave. At least he was able to leave a message: please telephone.

Dorrie did, just before noon.

Rickie told her about Teddie’s article. “I’d love to let Luisa know, but I’m afraid to phone there.” That was the absurd truth, afraid.

“I’ll call her! Of course I want to read it first,” Dorrie said with a laugh. “What’s the old witch’s last name again?”

When Dorrie’s call rang in the Hagnauer house, Renate and Luisa were having their lunch in the sitting room. Renate answered the telephone, though one of the girls, Vera, happened to be in the hall and had been nearer.

“Dorrie?” said Renate.

Luisa was instantly on her feet.

“This is the lunch period,” Renate said, cold as a recorded message.

“. . . will take just a minute . . .
message
,” Dorrie’s voice said.

“I think you are a friend of Herr Markwalder? Then I’d be grateful if you would
not
call here again.” Renate put the telephone down. “Rude people—
en plus
!” she snorted to Luisa, and started to clump back.

“She said a short message,” Luisa began.

Renate resumed her place and her meal. “If that telephone rings again—”

It did, just then.

“
You
answer it!” Renate said, standing up, ready to come with Luisa. “You tell that person she’s not to telephone here again! Tell her!”

Luisa walked past the eerily silent kitchen, where Stefanie, Vera, and Elsie were having their lunch. She picked up the telephone. “Hello?”

“Hello,
sweetie
! Teddie has an article in the
Tages-Anzeiger
today! Under the name—”

“
Tell
her!” cried Renate.

“Dorrie—”

“Georg Stefan. Got that? About you and—”

“Dorrie, I have to say—not to phone here again. That’s from—”

“Don’t tell
me
! Tell her to get stuffed!” Dorrie said loudly. “I’ll write to you—or something. You know where to reach me.”

“Hang up!” Renate commanded.

Luisa hung up. She hoped Renate had heard Dorrie’s words. Luisa returned to the sitting room, not wanting any more to eat, but if she had excused herself, Renate would have complained.

“I hope that sank in?” said Renate. “The nerve! The gall!”

Why, Luisa wondered. To telephone someone during the lunch hour? She was curious about Teddie’s article, though in a way she dreaded facing it: about their date at the mountain restaurant; Teddie had mentioned working on the piece.

“Finish your lunch.”

Luisa made an effort, washed it down with tea whose ice had melted, swallowing hard. Teddie’s article, strangely, had become one more obstacle in the day. Renate watched her now. Luisa longed to talk with Rickie—or did she? What good could he do? He was a friend, and sympathetic, but what could he
do
?

A quarter of an hour later, Luisa was at her sewing machine, working on the skirt of a suit she had designed, on Renate’s orders. Renate had had a word of praise for the waist of the jacket, the small and unusual lapels. Every now and then, Renate asked Luisa to “create something,” even a nightdress, which Luisa had once done. Luisa rechecked her basting of the zip panel. She had glanced over the bench where the girls put their handbags and other items, and had spotted a
Tages-Anzeiger
. Luisa chose a moment when Renate was out of the room, and went to the newspaper.

“Can I borrow this for a couple of minutes? Whose is it?”

It belonged to Stefanie, who said of course she could borrow it.

With careful haste, Luisa carried it down a short hall with windows, to the toilet used by the girls. She found the page and stood reading, so rapidly that she had to go back after a couple of paragraphs and read it again to make sense of it. Here was the nervous excitement of the evening when she had met Teddie in the dark near the big car that belonged to his mother, and which Teddie couldn’t borrow unless he kept his promise not to drink any alcohol. Dancing under the summer sky, and Teddie feeling unreal and elegant in a light jacket, sharply pressed trousers, and patent leather shoes. And the girl! Luisa forced herself to read it. She had to smile. One would have thought she was a fairy-tale queen, all beauty and shining eyes. She even had a lovely voice and could dance well! (Surely Rickie had laughed, reading this, Luisa thought.) And the food which sounded ethereal, the wine for her, and all too soon the drive back to the city, to deliver her at the hour she had to be back. The brief kiss good night. The Audi which seemed to take flight with Georg, when he drove it alone back to its berth.

Would Renate guess the truth if she read it? Luisa thought not. And what if she did? What had been wrong?

Now, hardly thinking, Luisa pulled the toilet chain with its old black knob, for proper sound effect. Tucking the paper under her arm, she rinsed her hands at the undersized basin which had only cold water, icy in winter, but pleasant now. Luisa went out.

“Thanks,” she said to Stefanie, replacing the paper on the bench.

Renate was just coming into the big room.

“Looking for another job?” Vera said softly, leaning toward Luisa. Vera’s shoulders hunched with laughter.

Luisa smiled. Another job. Yes, that was starting to sound nice. She bent again to her work.

Renate was making her rounds, checking, commenting, giving a suggestion here, a criticism there, and rarely a word of praise. That morning, when Luisa had awakened in her room, she had lain for a few minutes, letting herself swirl down into what she felt were the depths of—discouragement.

There was Renate’s hostility toward Teddie, though she didn’t even know him. Then Luisa’s own sharp memory of Teddie’s fine apartment, of his mother who, though pleasant enough now, would probably never countenance Teddie’s taking seriously a girl like herself. Teddie had his
Matura,
he had been to America at least twice, he dined at fine houses—not that he had said this, but he would know just how to behave, while Renate was still, often, correcting Luisa about something she did at the table, especially when they went to a good restaurant, as they had on Renate’s birthday. One could
not
make up for all that just by trying, Luisa felt. Anyway, for how long would Teddie have any interest in her? Maybe not as long as the six months to come of her apprenticeship, maybe not half that.

“This is quite good,” Renate said, bending over Luisa’s zip panel which she was just finishing. “
Very
nice.” She moved on.

The other girls were working on beige or blue trouser suits, all the same model. Production number: four, in three sizes.

Teddie would be walking on air, and maybe he would dare to telephone her today. Luisa hoped not.

She had Dorrie’s telephone number, two of them. That was comforting. Someone to talk to! Like Rickie. In a way better, because Dorrie was a girl. And so cheerful! Luisa liked that. When could she try to reach Dorrie? And from where? L’Eclair was the closest public telephone.

Maybe this afternoon around three, when Renate sometimes sent her out to buy bread for dinner or a cake from L’Eclair as a treat for the girls. Luisa realized that it was possible she could see Dorrie this evening. Wonderful! In the next instant, the old question raised itself:
how
, meaning what excuse would she give Renate?

Might it be easier to meet Dorrie at Rickie’s place? Then she and Dorrie could go off to a café somewhere, drink something cold, talk for half an hour, anyway.